


No Matter How Improbable

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, off-screen m/m sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John investigate a series of mysterious deaths but John discovers something much more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter How Improbable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almost_clara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almost_clara/gifts).



A year on, and to John, Ella's consulting room seems less like a gladiatorial arena in which he stands near-naked and vulnerable to attack from any side, and more like a genteel drawing room - all curved walls and tasteful wallpaper, well-tended pot plants and modest writing desk.

"I'm glad you could make it this time," Ella says, reviewing John's notes as he takes his seat facing her. "It's been a while. You cancelled our last three sessions."

"Yes. Sorry. Busy." He's not quite sure why he's apologizing for _not_ having felt the need for a therapist, but he does it all the same - probably out of professional respect. Patients who miss appointments annoy the hell out of him. "I was busy."

"Yes, I know," Ella nods. "I've been reading your blog. You seem to have been having a very ... interesting time."

John grins. "Never a dull moment with Sherlock."

"No," Ella agrees, but she makes it sound like a bad thing and an uncomfortable silence settles between them.

"My limp's a lot better," John offers, when he can't stand it any more. "Pretty much completely gone, in fact."

"And your other problem?"

The question instantly sends John's mind leaping back a few hours - to waking up next to Sherlock, and finding those amazing eyes watching him and those amazing hands stroking his morning erection to full hardness. John clears his throat. " _Completely_ gone, thanks."

Ella writes something on her pad which John tries, but fails, not to read: _Sexual function restored._

'And how!' he mentally amends, as his brain serves up another delicious memory - this time of Sherlock arching beneath him, his eyes unfocussed and his mouth open on a cry of sheer, uninhibited pleasure. Sherlock in the throes of orgasm undoes John in every way possible, so he's not really surprised that even in the middle of a therapy session the mere thought of it can make him tingle in interesting places.

Except it's not just the thought of Sherlock that's causing the pleasant thrum in his groin; it's the phone on vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out. A text, from Sherlock, summoning him. John smiles apologetically. "Sorry. Have to go. Sherlock. He needs me."

Ella gives him a long, level look. "Next time," she says solemnly, "we'll talk about what will happen when he doesn't."

\-----------------------------------

Sherlock's directions lead John to Kingston and a row of terraced, brick-built houses with white-washed fronts and bow windows. The little cul-de-sac is cordoned off with a ribbon of blue and white _Police: Do Not Cross_ tape, and behind it stands Sally Donovan, looking as pissed off as ever.

"He hasn't killed you yet, then?" she asks, raising the tape so that John can duck under it.

"Only in a _petite mort_ kind of way," John answers, cheerfully. "Which I'm happy to tell you he does on a daily - sometimes even twice daily - basis."

Donovan grimaces. "Please. No-one wants to hear what the freak does in bed."

"Believe me," John laughs, "I wasn't going to tell you. Is he here yet?"

"Just arrived."

With the forensics van parked outside it, and the front door wide open, it's obvious which house is the crime scene. John takes a step towards it.

"I still don't get what someone like you sees in a psychopath like him," Donovan says. "You could do a lot better, you know. He's such an arrogant sod."

John turns and raises an eyebrow. "Really? I hadn't noticed! Must be why you're the detective and I'm just a doctor."

The narrow entrance hallway of Number 5 is crowded with over-stuffed bookshelves and house-plants and, as he pushes through it, John gets caught in a tangle of variegated ivy. Trying to free himself from its grip without pulling the thing from the precarious wire and nail arrangement pinning it to the wall, has him tripping over a suitcase and, as a result, he stumbles into the front room rather than entering it carefully, drawing a hiss of annoyance from Anderson who's standing beside the body of an elderly man.

"John," Sherlock purrs, amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Thank goodness you're here. I'd like a medical opinion, please."

"Of course," John nods, ignoring the way Anderson bristles at Sherlock's slight. He takes the latex gloves that Sherlock offers him, pulling them on as he picks his way through stacks of more books and papers towards the body. He drops down onto his haunches beside it and checks for a pulse. There isn't one. He leans in closer, and sniffs at the deceased's open mouth for traces of intoxicants or vomit, but there's nothing. The man's lips, however, and the tip of his nose, are blue. "Cyanosis," John notes. Under the wayward straggles of shoulder-length grey hair that have fallen across the man's face, the skin is damp with the remnants of a fine sheen of sweat. John stands up. "Looks like a heart attack," he says.

"Didn't I say that?" Anderson demands.

Sherlock ignores him, and turns instead to Lestrade. "All the evidence points to a heart attack. A very ordinary death, don't you think? And yet you called _me_. Why?"

Lestrade's shoulders rise a little and he shuffles his feet. "Well, um, it was Assistant Commissioner Stone's wife who found him so I can't afford to get anything wrong on this one, or I'm going to get bumped down to sergeant and lose any hope of retiring on a decent pension."

Sherlock presses his hands together and taps his forefingers thoughtfully against his lips as he gazes down at the body. "So, what do we know about him? Apart from the fact that he's a lecturer at Harrow University in the History - no, _Politics_ \- Department, and had just returned from a trip to Central America?"

"How d'you know that?" Lestrade asks, evidently surprised.

"Donovan told me," Sherlock deadpans. "I think she's warming to me."

"Is she hell," Lestrade laughs. "Come on - out with it."

"There's an unpacked suitcase in the hall," Sherlock says, beginning to pace. "So a recent trip. The label on the handle reads 'SJO' - indicating the deceased travelled from Juan Santamaria airport, Costa Rica."

"And?" Lestrade prompts. "Or did you already know where Jane Stone works?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock replies. "Look at the hair. Couldn't get away with that in anything other than academia, or the media, but - judging by his clothes, he wasn't a well-off man, so at his age, academia it is. Plus, there's his frankly atrocious housekeeping."

It's on the tip of John's tongue to point out that Sherlock's isn't any better, when he realizes that's exactly Sherlock's point.

"There's a claret and blue scarf on the coat rack in the hall," Sherlock continues, "but it's one hundred percent wool, not nylon - therefore a _college_ , not football, scarf. Which college within commuting distance uses those colours? Harrow University."

"Amazing," John murmurs, meaning it, because Sherlock notices so much, so quickly.

Sherlock preens a little at the flattery but goes on. "All the papers and books in this room share a common theme - post-war general elections - so Politics or History. As a general rule, historians tend to be flamboyant in their dress, whereas political theorists are more conservative. Besides, look at his jacket sleeve: there's a smear of paint where he must have brushed up against the railings outside the departmental office on Wigmore Road just after they decided to paint them that ridiculous shade of green. So far, so obvious."

Lestrade sighs. "Yeah. He's not your usual gangland target, is he?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up under his fringe. "Gangland?"

Lestrade chews his lip. "The neighbours reckon they heard a gunshot. Which, along with the Central American connection, made the Guv suspect a drugs killing. Imagine what the press would make of that: 'Assistant Commissioner's wife connected to murdered drugs trafficker'."

"He wasn't shot," John says. "I'd've noticed."

"Even Anderson would have noticed that," Sherlock says. "So, John - your diagnosis is that he died of natural causes, is it?"

John nods firmly. "It is."

"Didn't I say that?" Anderson asks again.

"A perfectly sound conclusion," Sherlock agrees - and he waits just long enough for Anderson to look mollified and for John to experience the little rush of warmth he always gets from Sherlock's approval, before adding, "As far as it goes."

Lestrade's affable expression turns wary. "What d'you mean by that?"

"You may have called me in out of professional fear, rather than because you thought you really needed me," Sherlock tells him, "but it turns out that you were quite right to do so."

Lestrade groans. "You're going to tell me the old boy was murdered after all, aren't you? And that Mrs Stone is going to have to give evidence in a drugs trial. Bloody hell. Stone's going to have my guts for garters. But it doesn't make sense. There's not a mark on him."

"Not on _him_ , no," Sherlock agrees. "But what about the window?"

All eyes shift in its direction. The window is a lattice of small panes of glass, and now John really looks at it, he notices that one of them is missing.

Anderson audibly grinds his teeth and stomps over for a closer look. "It wasn't a bullet, if that's what you're thinking," he says defiantly. "There's not enough damage to the glass or the frame."

"No," Sherlock concedes. "But we have reports of a gunshot, and now a broken window, don't we? I'd say those are indication enough that this death was not merely the result of a simple heart attack."

"Perhaps it was a heart attack triggered by hearing the shot and panicking?" John suggests. "Maybe someone was trying to scare him to death."

"But there's _no bullet_ ," Anderson says, speaking slowly and carefully, as if he thinks the rest of them are idiots. "Not inside the house, not outside the house."

But Sherlock isn't listening; he's running a latex-gloved fingertip over part of the window frame above the missing pane, and scouring the floor with his gaze. Suddenly, he seems to spot something, and swoops down on it. "Aha!"

"What is it?" Lestrade asks. "What've you found?"

Sherlock lifts whatever it is and holds out a hand. On his palm lies a small brown thing that reminds John of a broken segment of Terry's chocolate orange, only it's very dry and much, much harder.

"What is it?" Lestrade asks again, staring.

"Absolutely no idea!" Sherlock says, beaming with delight. "Come on, John. This calls for a visit to the lab." And with that, he pockets his find and sweeps out of the room, coat swirling about him.

John hurries to follow him out onto the street. "You don't think it was a heart attack?" he asks, almost forced to run to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"Oh, it was definitely one of those," Sherlock says. "As you said, the signs were clear enough."

John comes to a halt, and grabs Sherlock's arm. "I was with my therapist," he says, surprised at how irritated he sounds. "If you were so sure you knew what had happened, what did you need me for?"

Sherlock blinks, then laughs. "But I _always_ need you, John. I'd be lost without you."

"No, you bloody wouldn't," John mutters, but he can't help smiling because, when he's actively trying to be nice, Sherlock is completely irresistible.

\-----------------------------------

Some time later, Sherlock is perched on one of the stools in the lab at Bart's, head bent over a microscope. The position exposes the nape of his neck, and it's all John can do not to lean down and nip at it: Sherlock has the most glorious neck, and he responds with surprising abandon to even the lightest bite on it. He probably wouldn't mind much if John gave in to temptation, but Molly might walk in at any moment, and John would hate to rub the poor woman's nose in what she can't have.

"You're staring at me," Sherlock says, without looking up.

"Brilliant deduction," John replies. "Or at least, it might be if you weren't always so damn watchable."

At this, Sherlock does look up. He's smiling. "John ..."

John smiles back. "So, what d'you think?"

"I think that you're going to have to wait until we get home. There's work to be done."

Heat washes over John. "No! I didn't mean that! I meant 'So, what d'you think it is?' The thing you found at Wilkins' place."

"Oh." Sherlock peers into the microscope again. "Organic. Some kind of plant, probably tropical. The cell structure is unlike anything I've seen before. Definitely not native."

"Some toxins induce heart attack," John says. "Could it be poisonous?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't know. I'll get Molly to do a bit of cross-referencing."

"Won't she be busy, you know, cutting up bodies?"

"Possibly," Sherlock agrees, "but she does so like to help."

"You shouldn't take advantage of her," John chides.

"You'd rather I sat here all night, working on botanical taxonomy myself?"

The implication is as obvious as it is unappealing. "God, no!" John laughs.

"I thought not," Sherlock smirks. "Give me five minutes to explain to Molly how invaluable she is to me and then we'll leave. I want to try something different tonight ...."

John's stomach flips over. Sherlock's bedroom experiments invariably leave him shaking and desperate for more. "Oh. Um, right. Yes. Good."

\-----------------------------------

It must be mid-day at least, John thinks, when the buzz of Sherlock's phone wakes him up. He can't remember the last time he slept in so late. He stretches luxuriously and realizes he can't remember the last time his arms and legs ached so much either.

At that very moment, Sherlock appears, fully dressed and with one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee. When his eyes meet John's, there's a touch of hesitancy in them, a suggestion of uncertainty, and he looks quickly away again, rubbing nervously at the back of his head with his free hand. "Are you ..." - His eyes flick back to John, then away again.- "What we did ... what _I_ did ... are you all right?"

John throws back the bedclothes and pads over to him. "I'm _fine_ ," he insists. " _It_ was fine. All of it."

Sherlock lets out a long, shaky breath. "Really?"

John chuckles. "No. Actually, it wasn't fine. It was bloody fantastic."

Sherlock's kiss is deep and soft and grateful, and it seems to take him a long time before it registers that his phone has started ringing again. He doesn't let go of John to pick it up.

Bits and pieces of Lestrade's voice reach John's ears, but he can't make sense of what he's saying. Sherlock's face, on the other hand, is easy to read. His brows have pulled together and his eyes are darting from side to side. He's thinking, trying to piece whatever information Lestrade is giving him into the bigger picture in his head.

"Where?" he asks eventually. Lestrade says something which Sherlock echoes for John's benefit. "Richmond Hill. Yes. We'll meet you there." He terminates the call. "Get dressed, John. There's been another one."

\-----------------------------------

The taxi drops them off outside a large and very impressive Georgian mansion: five storeys high, white stuccoed exterior and enormous sash windows on the ground and first floors. The grand effect, however, is somewhat undermined by the presence of a dozen uniformed policemen and a couple of cars with flashing blue lights.

"Mr Holmes," the policeman manning the entrance says, his reverent tone in stark contrast to Donovan's standard hostile welcome. "Inspector Lestrade said you should go straight up. First floor, sir."

John follows Sherlock up a small flight of stone steps and in through a pair of solid oak doors to a circular reception hall. John's never been anywhere like it, although he's seen pictures of similar places in the Sunday magazines. He seems to recall the style is called Understated Elegance, though quite what's understated about bronze statuettes and enormous, glossy-leaved plants, he'd be hard pressed to say.

Sherlock's heels click purposefully across the marble flooring towards an equally grand staircase which he bounds up with enthusiasm. John does his best to keep up.

The room they enter appears to be some kind of office: a high-backed swivel chair sits behind a long mahogany desk sporting a brass angle poise lamp, a computer and a pile of paperwork. A faint scent of coffee hangs in the air and John notices there's a half-empty cup and a half-full cafetière on the low table next to the dark leather settee which occupies the centre of the room.

Sherlock does a tour of the room, eyes raking over everything, from the furnishings to the bookshelves and even the ceiling, before joining Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson in front of the white marble fireplace, where they stand gathered around the sprawled body of a man in a pin-striped suit.

"Richard Douglas," Lestrade says. "Thirty-nine years old. Single, no kids. City trader, specializing in NASDAQ stock. Apart from that, all we know is that the housekeeper heard what sounded like a gunshot. She came running upstairs to see what had happened, and found him like this."

Sherlock crouches down beside the body, head cocked to one side and his face a study in concentration. "Barely half a stone overweight," he notes. He lifts first one, then the other, of the dead man's hands and examines the fingers. "Not a smoker." He pries open one of Douglas' eyes, and John has just enough time to catch a glimpse of dark brown iris before Sherlock lets the lid fall closed again. "No sign of high cholesterol," Sherlock observes. "An unlikely candidate for a heart attack at his age, wouldn't you agree, John?"

John opens his mouth to explain that heredity plays an important role as well, but Anderson cuts him off with an exaggerated sigh. "He _fell_. Cracked his head on the mantelpiece and fell. There's blood on the edge there, by the carriage clock."

Sherlock snorts. "Well, of course, he fell, Anderson. He's face down in his fireplace, with a nasty blow to his head. The question is: why?" He straightens up and spins around to face John, his focus sharp, intense.

"He had enemies?" John offers, mostly for the sake of saying something - _anything_ \- because if he has to stay silent under that particular gaze for very long, he's likely to start whimpering. It's happened before.

"Look at the house, John!" Sherlock cries, gesticulating wildly. "It's vast, full of expensive things, in a prime location and obviously worth a fortune. Of course he had enemies!"

At Sherlock's impatient tone, John experiences a flicker of annoyance. It's clear that, when it comes to Sherlock's work, the fact that they sleep together doesn't guarantee him any more respect than Anderson gets, and now he wishes he hadn't gone along with Sherlock's experimentation quite so eagerly last night. Never mind how bloody amazing it was, nor how he came twice in what ought to have been impossibly quick succession, shuddering uncontrollably as Sherlock ... _No!_ He gives himself a mental shake and forces his mind to return to the matter at hand. "Not _everyone_ has enemies," he argues, resentful as hell. "Perhaps he used his money for good, and had lots of friends."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The man lived _alone_ , John - in a house that has to have at least six bedrooms. And look at his bookshelf!" He strides over and starts plucking books from it at random. " _Mein Kampf. The life and times of Augosto Pinochet. Mrs Thatcher: Iron Lady._ Ungaretti's essays. _The Da Vinci Code_. As for charity ..." Sherlock snatches up the waste-paper bin and empties its contents over the dead man's plush Axminster. "There must be ten mail-shots in here from worthy causes, soliciting donations, and what has he done? He's ripped them up. Instead of just tossing them into the bin like ordinary people do, he's torn them into tiny shreds - you can only just make out the Oxfam O on that piece, see? That's not just indifference, John. That's _hostility_. Anger. And besides, he's got a stuffed fox head on his wall!"

John is actively angry now. He's supposed to be here because Sherlock needs him, but the truth is, Sherlock doesn't need anything beyond an absorbing case to work on. It's not that John minds acting as his sounding board; he doesn't even mind propping up Sherlock's colossal ego with involuntary expressions of admiration; but he's bloody well not going to stand here and be treated like an idiot. "You have a cow's head on _your_ wall," he growls.

"I have a European Bison _skull_ on my wall," Sherlock corrects. "What I don't have is a VIP invitation to the European Bison killers' ball tucked behind it!" He snatches the point of a gilt-edge card that John now realizes has been poking out from under the fox's shield-shaped mount all along, and brandishes it under John's nose. "The deceased was most assuredly not a nice man."

Telling Sherlock it takes one to know one is - thankfully - beneath John's dignity, so he opts for glaring at him instead. Sherlock gives him a confused glare back, clearly oblivious to the cause of John's anger but, as ever, so convinced of his own rightness, that he's willing to meet it.

"Yes, thank you," Lestrade says mildly, breaking the tension. "So, what d'you reckon, Sherlock? Was it just an accident? Or d'you think there's a link to the Wilkins case? It's not drugs, is it? You know how those city boys love their coke."

"Wilkins!" Sherlock cries, eyes widening as if he's had a sudden revelation. "Of course! Oh, stupid, _stupid_!"

"Oh, god," Lestrade groans, and runs a hand through his hair. "I _knew_ it. I bloody knew it. The tabloids are going to have a field day."

Sherlock doesn't answer, just launches into a furious search of the room - bookshelves, window ledges, chairs and even the carpet. All of a sudden, he's down on his hands and knees by the sofa, one side of his face pressed to the floor as he peers underneath it. A moment later, he lets out a cry of triumph. He's on his feet again in an instant, and thrusting his hand out for John's inspection.

John blinks. "That looks like ..."

"Some more of our mysterious plant," Sherlock agrees.

"Plant?" Lestrade and Anderson say in unison. "What plant?"

"Good question," Sherlock responds."And one to which I hope soon to have an answer." He starts walking around the room again, stopping every now and then to pick up a dark shape from the floor. "Better run a tox screen on the coffee too."

Anderson can only splutter with indignation at Sherlock telling him on how to do his job, but Lestrade is more coherent. "Wilkins wasn't poisoned," he says firmly. "Pathology confirmed a heart attack."

"Ha! Pathology!" Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "There is a link between these two cases somewhere - and aconite poisoning is notoriously hard to detect, if you're not looking properly."

Lestrade frowns at the orange-segment shape on Sherlock holds out to him."That's aconite?"

"No." Sherlock leans on the word, drawing it out, as he gives Lestrade a How Can You Be So Stupid look. "But whatever it is might be equally deadly. John, I think I feel a sudden urge to pay Molly Hooper another visit."

Despite his lingering irritation, John falls into line.

"There's a good dog," Donovan murmurs, as he follows Sherlock past her.

It's nothing she hasn't said a dozen times before, and yet today it really rankles.

\-----------------------------------

When they return to Baker Street, it's late and there's nothing in the fridge. Apart, that is, from one of Sherlock's work experiments and, although only half an hour ago John said he could eat a horse, he finds he can't face even part of one. Especially not when it's looking him right in the eye.

He slams the door shut again and starts flinging kitchen cupboards open instead, in the forlorn hope of finding something vaguely edible that's not too far past its Use By date. There's nothing. "You didn't go shopping," he says.

"Neither did you," Sherlock counters. "And when did _I_ have time for shopping?"

"You think I did?" John demands. "You've had me trailing around after you for the past two days. Supposedly because you 'need' me." It comes out less angry and more petulant that he was aiming for and adding, "Anyway, it was _your_ turn" does nothing to make it any better.

Sherlock looks at him in complete amazement, as if he were something peculiar squirming around on a microscope slide - which is pretty much how John feels. "But you _like_ shopping," Sherlock says, then smiles. "Besides you always know what we need. What _I_ need."

He's doing that thing again, John thinks frantically; that thing where he turns all his considerable charm on at once, leaving its target helpless to refuse him anything. "Yeah, well, I need something to eat!" John insists, backing away as Sherlock advances on him, because - Christ! - it really shouldn't be this easy for him to change the subject.

But, of course, it is. The moment Sherlock takes him in his arms, John is done for.

\-----------------------------------

John is just about to buzz in his last patient of the morning when his phone beeps. It's a text, from Sherlock.

_15 Jubilee Terrace, Merton. Come at once._

John stares at it for a moment, fighting an almost knee-jerk reaction to grab his coat. _No_. He's not going to drop everything every time Sherlock pulls that one, he tells himself. Not any more. He has a job of his own, every bit as _important_ as Sherlock's. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the intercom button.

Another message pops up on his phone instantly: _Please_.

It's the last thing John expected. "You devious sod," he murmurs, shaking his head in defeat as his resolve withers and dies. He rings through to Sarah's room. "Sarah, um, you know you said that if ... well, can I swap you evening surgery on Thursday and nip off now?"

"Got another puzzle to solve?" he hears her smile. "How many have you got left on your list?"

"Just the one."

"Go on, then. It sounds like a bargain."

"Thanks!" John switches off his computer, locks his desk and wall cabinet, and grabs his coat.

\-----------------------------------

Jubilee Terrace is nothing like Douglas' grand mansion, nor even Wilkins' more modest abode. The street is shabby, crammed full of cheap shops and Victorian villas in various states of disrepair. Dingy net curtains hang behind dusty windows and the gardens appear to have reverted to the wild - all except a couple at the very end of the street, which have been kept tidy. One of them even has terracotta pots bursting with flowers and a neatly clipped scrap of lawn. John's not sure whether to be glad or sorry to find that this is the scene of the crime.

"John Watson," he tells the fresh-faced constable manning the tape. "John Watson. I'm, um, with Sherlock Holmes."

If a knowing smirk crosses the young constable's face, it's gone again before John can be sure. "Oh, yes!" the constable says. "Go on in, sir. They're expecting you."

Once again, John ducks under another ribbon of police tape and makes his way into yet another unfamiliar house.

This time, he finds Lestrade and Sherlock standing in the hallway, at the foot of the stairs.

"Ah, John, you're here," Sherlock says, in that voice that's designed to make John feel like the only other person in the entire universe. "So glad I could persuade you to come."

It's the way he says it, John thinks defensively, when he finds himself getting hot and flustered; it's impossible _not_ to take it that way when Sherlock uses that voice. He swallows hard and reaches for a bit of dignity. "Well, yes, I _was_ busy at the surgery but-"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock cuts in, switching abruptly back to more everyday tones, "but I'd like you to take a look at the latest victim of our mystery shooter." He and Lestrade step apart - as far as the parqueted hallway will allow - to reveal the crumpled body of a grey-haired woman, probably in her late sixties.

Anderson's blue jump-suited form bobs into view through the doorway of one of the rooms off the hall. "Broken neck," he says. "Fell down the stairs, hit the deck and it was Goodnight, Vienna."

"Yes, thank you, Anderson," Sherlock snaps. "Haven't you got to dust something for fingerprints somewhere?"

As Anderson throws Sherlock a daggers look, John gets gloved up and kneels beside the body. There's a swelling at the base of the woman's neck, and the beginnings of a deep blue bruise, but otherwise he can find no serious injuries of any kind. His examination complete, he looks up at Sherlock. "I'd say Anderson is right. She must've tripped and fallen. It's not unheard of, especially for people of her age. A dodgy hip, or knee ...."

Sherlock huffs irritably. "Look at her, John. _Really_ look. She didn't have dodgy knees. She was a gardener. See the dirt under her nails? And she gardened on a daily basis: there's not a weed to be seen in those pots outside, not a blade of stray grass poking up between the paving stones."

"Okay," John concedes. "So maybe the stair carpet was loose and she tripped on it.?"

" _Loose_?" Sherlock sneers. "That thing has been tacked, glued and stair-rodded into total submission! How can you not have noticed? Are you blind as well as ..?" He lets his voice trail off, giving up on the insult half-way through as if he can no longer be bothered trying to educate John in the principles of deduction. The worst of it is, he doesn't even mean it as an insult - just a rational response to what he sees as John's severe intellectual limitations.

"But she _did_ fall, right?" Lestrade asks. "You're not saying she was pushed?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Tell me," he says, voice dripping sarcasm, "did you find any trace of anyone upstairs who might have pushed her? Someone hiding in a wardrobe, perhaps?"

Lestrade either doesn't notice it's a jibe, or decides not to rise to it. "Nope," he says mildly. "All we found was a shattered display cabinet, a whole load of broken china ornaments and splinters of wood."

Sherlock's eyes light up. "What kind of wood?"

Lestrade shrugs. "Dunno. Wood. Little pieces. Like claws. Forensics have taken them away for testing. I'll let you know."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmurs. "And there's no bullet either, despite her husband's claim that he heard a shot?"

"He wasn't absolutely sure," Lestrade says. "He had the telly on, but he thinks there was a loud bang of some sort."

"He can't be more specific?" Sherlock presses.

"Not at the moment," Lestrade says. "He's too upset."

"Honestly!" Sherlock cries, tearing at his hair in frustration. "What on earth is the point of having a partner about the place if they can't be useful?"

Lestrade gives an embarrassed laugh, clears his throat and looks at John. "He doesn't _really_ need me to answer that, does he?"

"I shouldn't think so," John replies. "He wouldn't want to fill his hard drive up with anything that's not _useful_. He says it makes it hard to get at the things that are really important."

Lestrade's laugh becomes warmer, genuinely amused. "Oh, yeah - that was his excuse for not knowing about the solar system, wasn't it?"

"Gah!" Sherlock explodes, slapping both hands to his head. "Will you two shut up? I can't think with you chattering away like idiots! If you can't be quiet, go and be somewhere that's not here!"

John glares at him. It would be so easy, so tempting to yell back, but he'll be buggered if he's going to give him the satisfaction. "Fine," he says, icily. "If you don't need me, I'll go home."

As he stalks out into the street, John reflects that it's no bloody wonder Sherlock has no idea that the earth goes around the sun: he thinks the whole sodding universe revolves around _him_.

\-----------------------------------

John doesn't actually go straight home; he goes to the bar on the corner instead. Mid-afternoon, it's quiet, populated by a handful of lonely old men making a half of bitter last for ages. John looks mournfully at his pint. At this rate, he's going to be one them. He knocks his drink back and orders another.

By the time he gets back to the flat, he's a little drunk. Not rip-roaringly pissed or anything, just light-headed and sleepy. He makes a cup of tea and settles in the armchair to drink it.

The next thing he knows, Sherlock has snapped a light on and is dropping a white carrier bag onto the coffee table in front of him. Rubbing his eyes, John realizes the living room is full of the smell of egg-fried rice.

"I picked up dinner," Sherlock says, as he throws himself down onto the settee. "You're always complaining there's nothing in."

John supposes he ought to be grateful: Sherlock thinking about anything other than a case is a miracle, but his utter lack of grace about it isn't exactly endearing. "This is all for me then, is it? You're not hungry?"

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. "I've told you before - I don't eat when I'm working. It slows me down."

Oh, the insults keep coming thick and fast today, don't they? John needs to eat, therefore he's slow. "Suit yourself," he grunts and takes the bag into the kitchen where he empties the contents of two plastic containers onto the one clean dinner plate they have left. Since all their knives and forks are in the sink, he has to make do with a spoon and it doesn't do much to improve his mood. However, he's starving and he must admit the food smells really good. He carries it back through into the living room and reoccupies his chair. "How's it going? The case?"

Eyes closed, Sherlock merely makes an irritated noise.

"It could be," John continues, around a mouthful of rice, "that there's no mystery and they all died of natural causes."

Sherlock springs up from his prone position and rearranges himself so that he's crouched on the settee, legs bent and elbows resting on his knees. "There's _something_ ," he says, steepling his fingers against his lips. "Something that connects them. In each case, there were gunshots, but no bullets. No sign of forced entry. No reports of any suspicious behaviour around any of the houses. The only thing we've got to go on are little bits of dried up plant - which _are_ poisonous, by the way, though none of the victims showed any signs of ingesting the poison or otherwise getting it into their bloodstreams. Think, think! What do a professor of politics, a banker and a housewife have in common?"

John puts another spoonful of rice into his mouth. "Perhaps they're all members of the same book club?" he suggests, chewing. "You sure you don't want some of this? It's very good."

Sherlock's mouth falls open and his eyes go wide. "John!"

"Eating is perfectly normal!" John protests.

"Normal!" Sherlock scoffs. "Boring!" He jumps to his feet. "I'm going out. Don't wait up. Enjoy your dinner."

"Patronizing bastard," John mutters as the door slams shut.

He's lost his appetite, he realizes, poking at his Sichuan-style chicken and rice, but he eats it anyway. Mostly out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

\-----------------------------------

Waking up without Sherlock next to him, or at least hearing him moving around the flat, is strange, John discovers. _Wrong_. He wanders into the kitchen, swears at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and switches on the kettle. It comes to the boil at the exact same moment as the downstairs door opens. John's hackles rise and his teabag gets an extra-vicious squishing.

Sherlock lets himself into the flat. He looks exhausted.

Grinding his teeth at his own stupidity, John hands over his mug of tea. "Here."

Sherlock takes it with some surprise. "How did you ..? _Oh_. Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," John replies - redundantly, he's sure. "Where've you been?"

"Scotland Yard. Police computers have access to all sorts of things."

"Please tell me you got permission first."

Sherlock grins. "Lestrade doesn't need permission. All he has to do is flash his ID at the new girl in records, and she lets him sign on."

"But you don't even know Lestrade's-" John stops right there, because Sherlock's grin just got wider. He sighs. "God, Sherlock. One of these days, you're going to get yourself arrested."

"It was all in a good cause," Sherlock says, in between sips of John's tea. "Because there _is_ a link between Wilkins, Douglas and Mrs O'Neil: they were all members of the Surrey Horticultural Society. You were quite right."

"I was? I don't remember saying anything about a gardening club."

"Well, yes, you said 'book club'," Sherlock replies with an airy wave of his hand. "But the principle is the same."

"Oh." John is momentarily pleased to think his off-the-cuff comment might have been helpful - right up until he remembers they're talking about possible murders. "But ... a gardening club?" he asks, doubtfully. "What's gardening got to do with gunshots and strange deaths?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised!" Sherlock says. "Competition does strange things to people, especially competition at the highest level. There are any number of cases of assault and malicious damage - even murder - on file at the Yard. It seems that gardening is no different from any other sport. If a man's marrow is an obviously better specimen that his rival's the day before a produce show, he's likely to have it cut into pieces!"

"Well, that's penis envy for you."

"Indeed." Sherlock nods. "Never underestimate a man's desire to be the best in his chosen field."

"Chance would be a fine thing," John mutters to himself, but Sherlock goes on.

"The best in the Surrey Horticultural Society is a retired army officer by the name of Captain Anthony Smythe - which means he could be in danger. So, if you've finished your breakfast, we should pay the gentleman a call."

"But you've been up all night!" John protests. "You should at least have a couple of hours in bed first."

Sherlock smiles. "That's very flattering, John, but a man's life may be at risk. First things first!"

\-----------------------------------

"What do you know about plants?" Sherlock asks John as their taxi turns into a street in New Malden lined with smart semi-detached houses.

"Not much," John admits. "Not a lot of call for gardening skills in Afghanistan."

"Pity," Sherlock huffs. "I don't suppose you could fake it?"

"Nope."

"In that case," Sherlock says, "I'll interview the Captain. Probably better that way around anyway. He might be the next intended victim - but he could equally well be the perpetrator. You can investigate the garden."

"What d'you mean - 'investigate'?"

"Look for information, John. _Data_."

John would ask what exactly he means by that, but the taxi has pulled to a halt, and Sherlock has already jumped out to bound up the path to Number 42's front door, leaving John to pay the driver. By the time he's fumbled in his pockets to scrape up enough for the fare and a tip, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

John stands on the pavement, unsure what to do next. He can't just march up the path and let himself into the back garden through the side gate. On the other hand, there's not much he can see from the street - just the apex of a large greenhouse and half of a tree. If he's going to discover anything, he'll have to find another way in.

He's in luck. Half a dozen black wheelie bins stand in a row along the kerb of the side-street opposite. They must have been wheeled down the same back lane. John takes a brisk walk to the end of Captain Smythe's block and finds another tell-tale row of bins. Trying not to look too furtive, he walks down to them, and nips into the lane.

Not all of the back gates are numbered, but a fair proportion are, allowing John to locate Smythe's garden with ease. The gate is bolted, but all John has to do is reach a hand over the creosoted trellis topping the back wall and slide it open. He slips through, and into the shade of the tree he saw from the front of the house, where he can wait unseen as he decides what to do next.

The garden is magnificent; John might not be able to name the shrubs and flowers, but he can see that much. The plants are vigorous and abundant, their leaves a hundred healthy shades of green. To his left, the tops of massive leeks fan out proudly above the vegetable patch's chocolate-brown soil, and beyond them, runner beans wind their way up cane frames trailing bright orange flowers. Okay, so John can name _vegetable_ plants when he sees them. It comes from liking to eat.

Keeping close to the solid wooden fence separating Smythe's garden from his next-door neighbour's, John inches his way down towards the greenhouse. Even at this distance, he can see it's bursting with tomatoes and peppers. He's pretty sure if Smythe does indeed grow marrows, they'll be prize-winning ones.

The greenhouse is just five yards away now. If John's quick, he can get inside before anyone standing at any of the windows overlooking the garden spots him. He makes a dash for it. Grabs the door handle. Pushes-

_BANG!_

The explosion is so loud, and so unexpected that for a moment John is back on the battlefield. Images of rocket flares and automatic fire sear his brain, and his heart begins to race. All his training, all his experience tells him to run - but things have changed, because he's not running away from the sound but towards it, towards the house, his service revolver already in his hand, just in case.

Somewhere nearby, he hears the wail of an alarm and briefly lets himself entertain the crazy hope that help is already on its way. But it can't be - and besides, he _is_ the help. He's a doctor. He can only pray Sherlock doesn't need one.

He tries the back door, rattling it in frustration when he finds it locked. The window beside it is too small and high to climb through, but there are French windows too - and he'll kick them in if he has too. Incredibly, though, they open at his first push on the handles and, heart pounding, he bursts through them into the house.

The room is a long one - two knocked through to form one - which means that although John can see Sherlock's body lying motionless on the carpet at the other end of it, he has to fight his way around a hefty dining room table and chairs before he can reach it.

"God, Sherlock, no!" he cries, kicking aside a massive book that's lying open on the carpet so that he has room to kneel down beside him. "No!" He's so horrified, so numb with shock, that it takes him several seconds to remember he should be checking for a pulse. His fingers fly to Sherlock's throat but he's lying too awkwardly for John to find his carotid artery. Panic setting in, he puts his gun down and heaves Sherlock over onto his back, straddling him to loosen his collar and try again. At first he can't feel anything - can't think, can't breathe - because he's sure he's lost him, but at last there it is: the flutter of life beneath his fingertips. He moves them slightly, and the flutter becomes a slow and steady thump.

If John were the crying sort, he thinks, he might be sobbing with relief by now. Instead he presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "You mad sod," he mutters. "You drive me crazy, d'you know that?"

Sherlock stirs, coughs and opens his eyes. They fill with warmth. "John ..."

" _God_ , Sherlock ..." Words fail.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts. "John, whilst I am most gratified by your passion for me, I must remind you that we're working. I shall have to reconsider our arrangement if you can't control yourself."

"I thought you were dead!" John cries.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that makes your decision to leap on me any the more appropriate. Quite the opposite, in fact."

It's so good to know he's okay - and he must be, if he's already making sarky comments - that John laughs. "What can I say?" he grins. "You're hot, even when you're cold."

Sherlock laughs too and lifts a hand to cup the back of John's head. "Insatiable," he murmurs, pulling him close. "We're going to have to do something about that appetite of yours." His lips are right against John's now, and John's "But you might be concussed!" is lost in a kiss that makes the rest of the world melt away. None of it matters, nothing beyond Sherlock's mouth, the weight of his hand in John's hair, and the upward push of his hips.

"Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes! What on earth was that noise?" an elderly voice croaks in alarm, only to stop abruptly. "Oh! I say!"

John jerks upright onto his knees, and is appalled to discover the grizzled features of what must be Captain Smythe's face staring down at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "I, er, um," John splutters. "The thing is, he was-"

By some miracle, a sharp knock on the front door diverts Smythe's attention from John's clumsy attempt at explaining why he and Sherlock are snogging on his front room carpet, and the old man shuffles off to answer it.

"Are you all right?" John hurriedly asks Sherlock. "D'you think you can stand?"

Sherlock frowns, and touches a couple of fingers to his right cheek, then to his temple. "There's a little discomfort. Here."

With a careful hand, John urges him to turn his face to the side and finds a crescent-shaped gash oozing blood on his temple, the skin around it already turning blue-black from bruising. "Bloody hell," he gasps. "Did Smythe hit you?"

Before Sherlock can answer, Smythe's voice sounds again. "Some colleagues of yours, I believe."

John looks up, and flinches. Donovan's smirk is excruciating.

"Inspector Lestrade, Donovan," Sherlock greets them, as coolly as if he were entering Lestrade's office instead of lying flat on his back on some stranger's floor with John on top of him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock," Lestrade replies. "As soon as Donovan told me you'd been on the computers - and in my account, no less - I knew you were onto something. Browsing histories can be very useful. Found this address and here we are. So what's going on?"

"I was _examining_ him!" John cries, mortified.

"Really?" Lestrade says. "Because Captain Smythe thought the two of you were about to have it off on his shag-pile."

"It's not shag-pile," Sherlock informs him, " it's berber. As for Doctor Watson and I, well, that was a purely precautionary measure, I assure you. We wouldn't want the good doctor going off like one of those seed pods, would we?"

"Seed pods?"

Sherlock gives an impatient sigh. "Oh god, isn't it _obvious_? There's enough evidence here that surely even Anderson would spot it." He gestures to the left and right, and now John sees it too: the scattering of plant seeds littering Smythe's floor, seeds exactly like the ones they retrieved from all the other houses.

Lestrade, however, just stares at them blankly. "So?"

"Dear god," Sherlock sighs. "You still don't get it? Dr Wilkins was a politics lecturer. He went to Costa Rica for his research but he was a gardener too, so he brought back samples of the local flora. According to Captain Smythe, he presented specimens to the president, secretary and treasurer of the Surrey Horticultural Society - namely himself, Richard Douglas and Irene O'Neil. Had the weather not been so unseasonally warm, one of them might have had time to identify the species from which the samples came - a rather large species of _hura crepitans_ or Sandbox Tree, going from the quick glance I managed at Captain Smythe's _Botanica Americana_. If they'd done so, before the things were fully ripe, they might have prevented three untimely deaths. As it was, the pods followed the course Nature intended - which is to say that they exploded, with a force that can send the seeds flying as far as three hundred feet away at speeds of up to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. More than enough to blind or seriously injure a man - or even kill him. I suppose I should consider myself lucky." He laughs ruefully and sits up to show Lestrade his injury, prompting John to realize that he should have climbed off him long before now. Embarrassed all over again, John gets to his feet and helps Sherlock to do the same.

"So," Lestrade says carefully, "you're saying none of the deaths was murder?"

"No. Wilkins was a heart attack, and the other two falls - all three resulting from the shock of hearing the pods explode. I'll fill you in on all the details tomorrow," Sherlock promises. He pauses and looks at John. "But now, if you'll excuse us, Inspector, Doctor Watson and I must leave immediately. There's an infinitely harder problem we need to work on."

Lestrade just looks at him blankly but Smythe chuckles. "Good luck to you!" he says, with a wink. "You enjoy yourselves, boys. It was never allowed in my day."

"There will be no _enjoying_ ," John says firmly, but when the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn down, he immediately relents, and adds, "not until Mr Holmes has seen a doctor."

Sherlock smiles. "Always a pleasure."

"A _hospital_ doctor, you idiot! You might need a CT scan."

"I don't need anything of the sort," Sherlock scoffs.

"Yeah, well, _I_ need to be sure of that," John insists, and he phones for a cab.

\-----------------------------------

The treatment room is clean, bright and smells strongly of hospital disinfectant. The young house officer motions Sherlock to take a seat, then leans in and carefully pushes Sherlock's left eyelid up with the pad of his thumb. Instantly Sherlock stiffens and pulls back. John is surprised: he'd thought Sherlock had stopped shying away from being touched months ago. Then he realizes it's only _his_ touch that Sherlock is at ease with and the realization that fills him with warmth and pride.

By rights, John shouldn't even be here - Sherlock's a grown man, not a kid in need of someone to hold his hand during a medical examination - but with Sherlock threatening to call a taxi and go home, and generally unsettling all the other patients in the triage area, both John and the A&E staff thought it best that John remain at his side, so here he is, watching a torchlight being shone into Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock flinches and shifts in his seat, flinching again when the doctor repeats the test on the other eye, even though the poor young doctor is taking the utmost care to avoid touching the plastic sutures closing the gash on his temple.

"Good, good," the doctor soothes, as he puts his torch back into a pocket. He holds up a finger in front of Sherlock's face. "Focus on my fingertip," he says, "and keep focussing." He moves his hand slowly, left to right, up and down. Sherlock cooperates for one cycle but when the doctor tries again, he huffs loudly and looks away.

"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asks.

"Of _course_ ," Sherlock sighs. "I can also tell you yours: Doctor Samson. Though I admit that's an easy one. It's on your badge."

" _Sherlock_ ," John says in his best warning tone.

"Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street," Sherlock rattles off defiantly. "Obama's the president and it's a Friday. Happy now?"

Samson looks at John. "Your friend is fine to go home, Doctor Watson. But keep an eye on him and any problems at all, bring him straight back. No need for an appointment."

"Thank you, Doctor," John says, and shakes Samson's hand. "Thank you."

He waits until they're well clear of A&E and on their way to the taxi rank before tackling Sherlock about his attitude. "I'm bloody glad I didn't have to deal with too many patients like you on my first placement," he says. "That poor houseman. There was no need for you to be so uncooperative; he was only doing his job."

Sherlock looks bored. "An excuse that has echoed down the annals of history," he sighs. "And you know I can't stand people fussing."

"He wasn't 'fussing'," John argues. "He was examining you."

"I didn't need examining. As I told you from the start."

"Sorry. I seem to have missed the part where you're a doctor too."

"Pah! Doctors!" Sherlock sneers and suddenly John's patience snaps. He's been through far too much in the past couple of hours - desperate fear, agonizing grief, overwhelming relief and toe-curling embarrassment. Sherlock's disdain for his profession is the last straw.

"Right, that's it. Get your own sodding cab," he says through clenched teeth and, turning his back on Sherlock, he walks angrily away, leaving him to stand on the pavement alone.

"What?" he hears Sherlock call after him. "Why? Where are you- Bloody hell, John! Look out!"

There's something about the way he says it - a sharp edge of alarm - that makes John spin around. It's only then that he registers the roar of an engine and sees the souped-up boy racer-mobile hurtling towards him. There's no time to react. All he can do is screw his eyes shut and brace himself for pain. A smell of burning oil fills his nostrils, as a sudden burst of heat hits his legs. Tyres squeal, someone swears, and then he's struck - a hard, dull blow to his left thigh that leaves him numb and heavy. Time slows. His knees buckle, and it feels like it will take forever to hit the ground.

But he doesn't hit the ground. A hand grabs him, closes tightly around his arm and yanks him backwards. It's so sudden and so violent, that the next thing John knows, he's landing hard on his backside on the car-park's dusty tarmac, all the air knocked from his lungs. The car races on past.

As John struggles to process what's happening, Sherlock falls to his knees beside him, opening and closing his mouth uselessly as if gasping for air, his always-pale face whiter than ever. "God!" he finally succeeds in choking out, snatching John's face with both hands. "All right? John! Are you all right?"

His eyes are wide, the pupils dilated, and his hands are trembling. Fear responses, John knows. It's a revelation: Sherlock was afraid. Afraid John would be killed. Afraid of losing him. No, not just afraid but _terrified_. "I'm fine," John says, amazed. "Really, Sherlock. I'm fine."

Sherlock swallows, nods. "Are you sure? Your leg ... " He tries to look, but can't, and jerks his gaze away again. "It got hit."

John does a quick check. He'll bruise, that's for sure, and he wouldn't say No to a bucketful of pain-killers now that the initial shock is subsiding and he's starting to feel again. He'll probably limp for a week or so too, but nothing's broken and he doesn't seem to be bleeding. Besides - _Sherlock was terrified of losing him_. "I'm great," he says, feeling absurdly light and happy. "Great. Better than I've ever been."

Sherlock has no idea what he means by that, of course, and seems too shaken to ask. All he can manage is a stuttering exhalation of breath, and a soft, tender kiss.

\-----------------------------------

"We were going to talk about your relationship," Ella reminds John at their next appointment.

John leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out comfortably in front of him. "Yes," he agrees, smiling fondly at the memory of awaking in the wee small hours of the night to find Sherlock wrapped tightly around him.

"And about how you'd cope if your partner were to decide he doesn't need you."

John's smile widens, then widens some more, and some more, until he's grinning from ear to ear. "You know what?" he says, when Ella looks at him as if she thinks he's gone mad. "I don't think that's an issue any more. I really, really don't."

\---- THE END ----

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> As several people have brought this up in comments recently, I feel I should probably clarify my thinking in the following section:
> 
> _"Good, good," the doctor soothes, as he puts his torch back into a pocket. He holds up a finger in front of Sherlock's face. "Focus on my fingertip," he says, "and keep focussing." He moves his hand slowly, left to right, up and down. Sherlock cooperates for one cycle but when the doctor tries again, he huffs loudly and looks away._
> 
> _"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asks._
> 
> _"Of course," Sherlock sighs. "I can also tell you yours: Doctor Samson. Though I admit that's an easy one. It's on your badge."_
> 
> _"Sherlock," John says in his best warning tone._
> 
> _"Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street," Sherlock rattles off defiantly. "Obama's the president and it's a Friday. Happy now?"_
> 
> I am English myself, but I've never been examined for head trauma so my assumptions about such examinations are based on what I've seen on television or in film. The version of Sherlock in this story is in the same boat. He's had no previous direct experience of the situation, just indirect exposure through the day-time TV shows (which are often American) that John has introduced him to. This was a deliberate choice on my part. I'd have made a different one had John been the one being examined.
> 
> I'm sorry that doesn't work for everyone.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic was written for the Holmestice community on LiveJournal. It was submitted under my other fic writing nom de plume. *g*


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